


fine/fantasy

by Anonymous



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Insomnia, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Episode 65, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19151251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He’s not thinking about Zolf. Hecan’t.





	fine/fantasy

It’s not– Hamid isn’t masturbating to feel good, he’s doing it so he can feel tired and finally get some sleep. Except, the only thing he feels is _frustrated._ It might be good if there were more, or if it felt less like _his_ hand and more like—

(Zolf’s hands were warm against Hamid’s chest, and the sudden heat after being frozen felt so good that Hamid shuddered.)

Hamid swears softly at the empty room. He’s not thinking about Zolf. He _can’t._ He can’t think about how soft Zolf’s voice was, or the way his calloused fingers felt, or the bruises he left on Hamid’s hips. Bruises that are still there when Hamid presses his non-slick fingers against them. (Not that the fingers on his other hand are particularly slick, either.) Maybe because he’s _been_ pressing against them, making them worse when Hamid finally accepted that Zolf wasn’t coming back. They’re a souvenir. Something to remember him by.

Something other than the ache in Hamid’s heart. 

Because Hamid can’t let himself long for Zolf like that. They were friends, _good_ friends, and sometimes they had sex, but that’s all it was. Hamid knows he’s attractive, and his personality isn’t utterly abhorrent, and he was the only other man on the team, so obviously, he was the only real option. Zolf never initiated anything, except for that one time just before the airship, and that wasn’t even– well. Hamid was more than happy to let the slight bruise on his shoulder disappear.

That’s not what he’s thinking about right now. He’s thinking about _this,_ the steady drag of his fingers, the hitch of _yes-good-more_ that he’s trying to pull into something substantial. He did this when he was first trying to sleep in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hotel. It was terrible. The bed was terrible, that is; Hamid didn’t have nearly as much trouble getting himself off as he is now. It probably didn’t hurt that Liliana never wanted to touch him directly. He didn’t have anything specific to miss. But he has a frame of reference now, he knows precisely how Zolf would hold him, would sound, would feel.

Gods, for– he’s _focusing._ Hamid licks his ring finger to ease the way, and it’s okay, so he keeps doing it, his hips rocking toward friction he won’t find. It’s pleasant, but Hamid feels… detached from it. Like if he tries hard enough, the _yes-good-more_ will vanish and belong to someone who isn’t him, who’s actually getting fucked.

_(Fuck, I think I love you,_ Zolf gasped, and Hamid nearly fell over himself to kiss him.)

Hamid inhales sharply as suddenly that feeling of _yes-good-more_ settles tenfold in his stomach, as he rocks into his fingers damn near unthinkingly, too distracted by his memory. For fuck’s sake.

“I’m not going to fantasise about him,” Hamid whispers to the room with a surprising amount of vitriol. The room says nothing. Hamid sighs, scissors his fingers, circles his hips. It doesn’t feel _bad,_ it just– there should be more. 

_(More,_ Hamid managed, _please, more more more,_ and Zolf had—)

Hamid wipes his fingers on the sheets and turns over, away from the wet spot. He’d rather stare at a wall for hours than suffer through memories he’d be better off forgetting. He’d rather stare, sleepless, at the darkness than think up fantasies he’ll never get to fulfil.


End file.
